


Myths Were Never Meant to be Happy

by Hel be praised (Silvertounge)



Category: Justice League (2017), Justice League - All Media Types
Genre: Boys In Love, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining Arthur, Pining Barry Allen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 09:05:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13498872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silvertounge/pseuds/Hel%20be%20praised
Summary: Arthur is a force of nature, unyielding and overwhelming. Sometimes Barry worries his very being will disappear under the onslaught.





	1. Echo

There were times that Barry didn’t know how to cope with the very thing that was Arthur. Sometimes, often when he least expected it, Arthur became overwhelming (and if Barry was lucky it was in the very best sense of the word).Being in any proximity to Arthur was like being surrounded by water that was constantly pushing against him, pressure building and building but never quite crossing the line between just enough and pain.

Barry remembered –hazily he had been so young then—the time he’d fallen into the pond outside his first foster family’s home. He’d sunk deeper and deeper into the water. His lungs burned, but he was totally calm. He knew with the certainty of a child that someone would come save him, that the water would never hold him longer than he could truly handle.

Forces of nature didn’t mean to be overwhelming—they just were.

Sometimes he looked at Arthur and his stomach hurt, sometimes he touched Arthur, and he thought that if he stopped he’d die. Arthur seemed –at least to Barry— something like a fae creature, he made Barry understand why humans were never meant to mix themselves with other beings.

After all what good had come to all those mortal women from consorting with Zeus? Only death and heartbreak followed that path.

Arthur was a conundrum. Fae water god, and drunk frat boy all in one package. Barry had seen Arthur sagely stop a lover’s dispute; only to turn around and see him break his leg after asking Barry to hold his beer. He was remote enough to be godlike, but often human enough that Barry wanted to approach him.

Barry wasn’t quite sure exactly what their relationship was, they never really talked about it. Sometimes Barry was, inwardly, bitter about that.

Clark was so gushy and gross about his fiancée, Bruce and Diana were…...well they made eyes at each other during meetings. He’d seen them helping each other up during a fight hands lingering, eyes holding, skin touching for just a little too long to be platonic.

Even Vic had his computers and a quiet girlfriend from high school that he’d dared to reconnect with.

Barry _wanted_ that. Wanted so badly that his teeth _hurt_ for how hard they clenched whenever he saw anyone else being happy and content and—if not in love—at least in something deeper than a pat on the back followed closely by a _“You did good kid,”_ before watching Arthur walk off on his own.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had something truly _good_ in his life. No one ran their fingers through Barry's hair when he couldn’t sleep, no one curled against him at night for warmth, no one’s hands lingered like a stolen whisper against his torn and bleeding skin, no one truly _cared_ about Barry.

Bitterness tried to spread itself throughout his mouth, tried to coat his tongue so that all he could taste was the ichor of envy and sorrow. No matter how hard the world tried to make him see sense, he still preferred sweet to bitter.

The way Arthur’s eyes, green and turbulent like the sea being stopped by the unyielding shore, followed him when Barry was in his lap.

The feel of Arthur’s hands sliding over his dick; callouses and scars catching on the sensitive flesh; thumb rubbing the pre-come that dripped copiously from Barry along the already slick length of him.

The press of Arthur’s chest against his back, tangles of wavy hair brushing his shoulders as Barry screamed out, voice hoarse and drowned out by the rushing in his ears.

The moments when he had Arthur’s attention completely were horribly overwhelming. Barry _loved_ it. Craved the moments when Arthur was all his, knowing they would end only mad Barry want to seek them out more.

Pain –no—agony was the brain’s way of telling your failing heart that you were still alive to be messed with.

It wasn’t all sex; sometimes –only when everyone else was gone— Arthur would pay attention to him. Eyes fixating on Barry like he could actually _see_ him. See him through the nerves and unseeable moments when everything was too overwhelming, and he tried to move to relax.

Those quiet moments where Arthur’s hand would find Barry’s shoulder, fingers digging in tightly, but not unkindly, anchoring him to the here, to now.

Barry ached to ask when he’d finally have all of Arthur, or maybe he really wanted to know when he’d finally be able to shake the addiction he’d developed to the other man.

Barry could describe the exact way Arthur smiled, the crinkle at the corner of his eyes. He could write essays on the deep resonance of Arthur’s voice, the way it echoed in his ribs the few times Arthur had stayed in his bed long enough for Barry to fall asleep; whispering stories of a long-ago childhood and the unknown beauty of the vast oceans.

Barry knew Arthur didn’t do anything to purposefully hurt him, he wasn’t quite Zeus and Barry wasn’t Semele, he wouldn’t be consumed instantly by thunder and flames for the vain wish of a god’s love.

No, watching silently as Arthur walked away, the sting of another battle fresh on his bleeding skin, Barry felt more like Echo.  Weeping out Narcissus’ name back to him, endlessly wailing and screaming all in the hope that one day he’d look up and say her name back.

He wanted to scream out for him, but already knew the answers he'd receive. 

When will you come back?

Later.

When will you look at me and see me looking back at you?

Later.

When will you want me the way I want you?

Never.

The more Barry thought about it the more he realized that myths were never meant to be happy. No one walked away from the real world unscathed.

And what was the difference between myths and fairy tales? Reality.

Arthur’s hands caught Barry’s suit before he left –sea-like eyes looking just past him as he did—and asked if he’d see Barry tonight.

Of course Arthur would, he always would. Because no matter how painful, you always gave everything to your god in worship, and you didn’t dare say no.


	2. Narcissus

The way the kid’s eyes followed him as he left made his skin feel entirely too tight for his frame. Like Arthur was walking away from someone on their last leg –Barry used his legs so often it wasn’t hard to imagine how crippling that would be—like he was ignoring a dying man’s last wish.

Arthur tried not to think about Barry when he was gone. Thought only of his wants, his body. He chased pleasure through the throbbing beats of overcrowded clubs, pressed himself between a plethora of beautiful, willing, twisting bodies.

In truth, Arthur didn’t want the responsibility of caring for another person. He already had to save the earth with a guy who walked around like a giant bat, was it too much to ask that in his downtime he could do whatever the hell he wanted?

(Just don’t think of the way he whispers your name)

Barry was entirely too trusting and naive. He looked at Arthur like he was Atlas holding up his world, keeping it from spinning free into the vast expanse of the cosmos.

Barry looked at Arthur like a _god_. His eyes followed every movement he made, caught every motion with inhuman precision.

Those eyes—more to the point their owner—made his blood boil, his skin freeze. When Barry followed him, Arthur was able to do anything.

But the cost of that power was astronomically high. A being was only a god so long as they were infallible, gods were—people too often forgot—unmade by the very people they gathered praises from. Too weak, too human, too slow and you were reduced to ash under the once loving worship of people you only sought to help.

(Fuck away the way his mouth feels around your dick; worshiping and warm.)

No one looked at Atlas and really thought upon his stress, they only saw the glaring failures and ruin that would be left in the wake of his path should he fail.

Not that Arthur was anything approaching a god—Barry’s sharp eyes begged to disagree—he was a runaway king, too tired and washed out by the age of 38 to even pretend he cared about a kingdom he had been meant to rule.

He told himself—wistfully, distractedly, pleadingly, resolutely—that Barry would _get over it_.

Because he had to get over it. No matter what Arthur wanted—oh how he _wanted_ —he could never give Barry the things he sought from him. He knew himself well enough to know that he wasn’t dependable, not unless it somehow benefited him in some way.

No matter how often Arthur craved the kid, no matter how much he wanted to be able to hold him until they both faded into the eventual nothingness of the universe; it wasn’t something he was truly able to give.

(Chase away the tightness in your chest every time you slink away from his sleeping body.)

That being said, Arthur was selfish. He devoured life in any way he could get his hands on it. He did dangerous things, watched banned movies, read books that sounded interesting.

Unfortunately for Barry—or maybe Barry felt it was fortunate—he was something Arthur wanted. The need—like a gnawing craving in the pit of his stomach eating and eating so that he was always hungry—was inescapable.

He felt like Tantalus waist deep in the jeering waters of Tartarus eternally thirsty with water all around him. Maybe more like Narcissus so focused on the object of his desire—Barry was often a reflection of what Arthur wanted to be; selfless, kind, perfect—that he eventually crumbled to dust trying to find it.

(Ignore every loving thing you want to do for him; craving connection that you’ve refused.)

There was no happy ending to a tale of caution, no matter how they ran around the issue they’d never find a solution; only serve as a warning to all who looked: beware ye of unattainable love.

Arthur could fuck him, could watch wide-eyed as Barry rode his cock—he always clenched his dark eyes closed like everything was too much to take in—chase pleasure with him in the darkened walls of a closed off room.

Barry was the mirror he’d always come back to, and fair or not he wanted Barry and would have him as long as Barry was willing to take him.

(Be ignorant of the pain you cause him every time he sees those around him in love).

Myths were carved from the agony of a true reality, not everything worked out in the end sometimes people suffered and there was no real end to it. The only relationships in life that were Disney perfect belonged to those privileged enough to never look darkness in the face and find a deep-rooted kinship there.

He tried—and failed—to be good to Barry, but inevitable he became overwhelmed by the other, inevitably he itched to move about on his own; and like the changing of the day he was gone.

For all they tried to be Arthur was a flower panted firmly in his own shore and Barry was an echo weeping back his own name.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all!  
> If anyone is interested, check out my tumblr https://www.tumblr.com/blog/thesunwillneverrisehere. I post alot of stories and commissions there as well.


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